Belthar had a lot in common with the Lieutenant. He was as solid as a rock and twice as stubborn. Yet there was a sensitive side to him, as evidenced by the way he colored at Colborn's jests. He never backed down from a challenge. Aravon had no doubt he'd prove utterly relentless in his pursuit of their mission, but even tenacity could backfire.
“Captain.” Noll's voice cut into his thoughts.
Aravon turned. The little scout stood beside him. The man barely reached his shoulder—his short stature made him perfect for creeping through dense forests.
“Doesn't any of this strike you as insane?” Noll asked.
The question caught Aravon off-guard. “What do you mean?”
Noll's mouth twitched. “The Duke's plan. This new style of fighting the Eirdkilrs. Isn't it all a bit…” He gave a vague gesture. “…hopeless?”
Ahh, of course. Aravon understood. He'd wrestled with the same question every day since the Duke first laid out his plan. “You mean pitting the five of us against an entire army of Eirdkilrs and hostile Fehlans?”
Noll nodded. “So you think so, too?”
Aravon hesitated. “At first, I did. Hells, I thought the Duke was insane. I agreed because there are few men in the world I trust as much as Duke Dyrund.”
“And now?” Noll raised an eyebrow.
“Now,” Aravon said, his voice heavy, “I don't know. It still sounds impossible, but the more I think about it, the more I'm willing to accept I could be wrong.” He crossed his arms and leaned against a training dummy. “We've all heard the story of the Last March of the Thirteenth Company, how a force of two hundred Legionnaires turned back two thousand Eirdkilrs. Impossible odds, but, given the right tools, they got the job done.”
“Sure, Captain, but they brought the bloody mountains down on top of the bastards.” Noll gestured around. “Not a lot of chance that'll work twice, if you get my meaning.”
“Of course.” Aravon nodded. “But my point is that maybe, just maybe, we could be in the right place at the right time to do something right. Think about it: what if we could have saved the Sixth? Would you consider it worth it then?”
Noll gave him a long, hard look. After a moment, he nodded. “Understood, Captain.” The tension in his face didn't diminish. “With your permission, I've got a few kinks in my muscles that need working out, and there's a rack of bows over there calling my name.”
Aravon grinned. “You're welcome to them.”
With a salute, Noll strode away. Aravon noticed a hint of a limp.
“Noll?” Aravon called out.
The scout turned.
“You've no need to prove yourself, at least not to me. I'd rather you heal up fully than push too hard and do yourself some serious harm.” Aravon glanced at Draian. “I'm sure the Mender would agree with me.”
“Yes, sir.” Noll nodded. “I'll see what I can do about that.”
Aravon watched him go, shaking his head. He'd learned one important thing about the scouts of the Sixth Company: they prized their independence above all else. More than one Legion Captain had struggled to rein in their scouts' excesses. Something about spending most of their time away from the main Legion body made them too wild for many officers to handle. Yet another skill that could prove valuable in the right situation, or dangerous in the wrong one.
Let's just hope it's the former.
With a shrug, Aravon turned back to the training yard. Colborn had finished with Draian and passed him over to Belthar. The big man was teaching the Mender the specifics of fighting the enormous Eirdkilrs, using his massive axe to highlight his points. Colborn had retrieved his own weapons—a long sword and a Fehlan hand axe—and set about chopping one of the training dummies to shreds. Zaharis was nowhere in sight.
Aravon strode toward the stone building, their temporary barracks. He'd spend a few hours with Lectern Trillan brushing up on his Fehlan, then try to catch a few hours of rest before a night out on the marsh with Colborn and a dawn training session with Zaharis. At this rate, he didn't expect to get much sleep anytime soon.
As he approached the barracks, a shout rose from the front gate. “Riders!”
Aravon tensed. Camp Marshal was supposed to be the Duke's best-guarded secret. If there were riders coming, who would—
“It's the Duke!” one watchman cried. He hurried down the ladder from the watchtower and threw open the gate.
Duke Dyrund trotted through the open gate on an enormous black Kostarasar charger, Lord Eidan riding a few paces behind.
The Duke dismounted and threw his reins to the watchman. “Good to see you again, Clem.”
Clem, a grizzled veteran with one eye and six teeth, grinned at the Duke. “And you, Your Grace.” The man was one of the few people the Duke kept on hand at Camp Marshal. Dyrund had chosen each—the two Lecterns, Clem the watchman, Polus the blacksmith, and the two servants charged with maintaining the grounds and building—for their loyalty. Every one of them had served him during his time in the Legion or in his position as Duke of Eastfall for longer than Aravon had been alive.
The Duke lifted a bundle from his saddlebags. “A little care package from Lenna and the grandkids.”
Clem ducked his head and accepted the cloth-wrapped parcel. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Duke Dyrund gripped the man's shoulder. “Just remember, if Lenna sent those butter cookies you know I love, I'll thank you to save me one.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Clem chuckled as he gathered up the horses' reins and led them toward the stable behind the barracks.
Duke Dyrund spread his arms. “Aravon, it's good to see you again.”
“Your Grace.” Aravon clasped the Duke's forearm. “How go things in Eastfall?”
A shadow passed over the Duke's eyes, but it disappeared as the Duke smiled. “Can't complain, can't complain.”
Just then, the sound of hoofbeats echoed from the road leading to Camp Marshal.
“Ah, here we are.” With a grin, Duke Dyrund turned toward the open gate. “Allow me to introduce Skathi, the final member of your little company.”
At the Duke's words, the rider came into view—the second most stunning woman Aravon had ever seen.
Chapter Twelve
Aravon tried hard not to gawk. He'd never looked at another woman beyond Mylena—she'd been his first love, the only woman he'd ever considered. But after three years away from Icespire, among the company of men like Noll, he found it difficult not to appreciate the figure before him.
Clad in a long green cloak, hood thrown back, she dismounted with the easy grace of an experienced rider. Though she stood a few inches shorter than him, the breadth of her shoulders and back nearly matched his and her arms put even Colborn's to shame. With her vivid red hair and forest green eyes, she looked as if she had come from the Vidr clan that occupied the Fehlan countryside just south of Eastfall.
Regaining his composure, Aravon thrust out a hand. “Captain Aravon, formerly of the Sixth Company.”
The woman gave him the same appraising glance the others had. Seeming satisfied, she shook his hand with bone-crushing strength. “Skathi, formerly of the Agrotorae attached to Garnet Battalion's Fourth Company.”
Aravon's eyebrows rose. The Agrotorae were archers from the Princelands, trained specifically to counter the Eirdkilrs' ranged weapons. They weren't proper Legionnaires, but irregulars attached to the companies in order to bolster their ranks. They had a reputation for being fierce warriors, deadly with their bows, and well-disciplined. And they were all women.
“Commander Rosaia speaks highly of your father, Captain,” Skathi said.
“And the General has only the highest of praise for the commander of the Agrotorae,” Captain Aravon responded. The mention of his father brought back the familiar tightness in his gut. “For all Agrotorae, in fact. Your arrows saved him on more than one occasion, he used to say.”
Skathi nodded. “Thank you, sir.” Her eyes held a burning ferocity, yet her expression remained gua
rded. Doubtless from the fact that she was a beautiful woman who spent her life surrounded by Legionnaires, men who could be crude and vulgar at the best of times. More than one Legionnaire Captain had to order his men flogged for crossing the lines of propriety with unwilling Agrotorae. After the Legionnaires in question healed up from the wounds inflicted by the well-trained archers, of course.
Duke Dyrund cut in. “Captain, I'll let you show Skathi around. Lord Eidan and I have some matters to discuss with Lectern Trillan, but we will join you for the midday meal.”
“It will be an honor, Your Grace.” Aravon bowed to Duke Dyrund and Lord Eidan. The well-dressed nobleman returned the bow with his usual tight-mouthed expression. He spoke little, but eternally hovered at the Duke's back like the aides-de-camp that served the Legion commanders.
Aravon gestured toward the training yard. “Come, Skathi. Let me introduce you to the men that will be your comrades.” He didn't miss the way she stiffened at the word “men”. The Agrotorae recruited only women for a very good reason. “You have my word that no one will mistreat you here.”
His words had the opposite of the desired reaction. Instead of relaxing, her eyes flashed and her face hardened. “Don't worry about me, Captain.” Her jaw clenched. “I'm fully capable of taking care of myself.”
Aravon colored. “I-I didn't mean to...what I meant was…” He trailed off lamely. He had no idea what he'd said wrong, but his marriage to Mylena had taught him it was better to shut his mouth than risk saying something that would compound whatever problem he'd caused.
The woman's presence beside him brought back thoughts of his wife. He'd been so busy over the last week he hadn't had time to miss Mylena. Watching Belthar and Colborn had reminded him of Rolyn and Adilon. Boys had a tendency to bicker no matter how old they were. Just as with his sons, he wouldn't interfere until it got out of hand.
The first to greet the newcomer had four legs instead of two. Snarl raced toward her and gave a little bark—half-warning, half-greeting.
“And who's this little fellow?” Skathi asked, kneeling to get a closer look at Snarl. She turned a wide-eyed expression on Aravon. “Is he…?”
“An Enfield.” Aravon nodded. “Turns out they're a lot less mythical and a lot more mischievous than the stories say.” He gave Snarl's tail a little tweak. “This one chewed halfway through my boots yesterday.”
The Enfield, as if somehow understanding that they spoke of him, yipped at Aravon before turning and darting toward a squirrel that had wandered through the open gate. Snarl's head had grown faster than his body, which remained short and lean. His fur, however, had begun to fill out, the color deepening to a rusty orange shot through with white. His eyes had changed from slate-blue to grey to a deep amber. The last of his down feathers had yet to fall out, but he had actually managed to flap his way ten feet or so off the ground.
“He's amazing,” Skathi breathed. “And adorable!”
Aravon grinned. “We'll see if you feel the same after he's eaten through your best pants.”
All activity in the training yard ceased as Aravon and Skathi entered. Colborn gave the woman an appraising look. Noll's eyes sparkled, and it didn't take a mind reader to know precisely what he was thinking. Belthar actually paused, mid-swing, his jaw dropping as his eyes fell on Skathi.
Draian seemed the only one unaffected by her presence. He completed his attack on Belthar, and the big man yelped as the flat of Draian's blade slapped his knee.
“You're letting flies in, big man,” Draian said in a whisper loud enough for Aravon and Skathi to overhear. Belthar turned an interesting shade of red, but managed to snap his mouth shut. With a chuckle, the Mender strode toward Skathi and held out a hand. “Mender Draian of Icespire.”
Skathi shook. “Skathi of Highkeep.”
“Tell me, Skathi of Highkeep,” Noll's voice cut off Draian's response, “are you religious?” A leering grin split his face. “Because you're the answer to all my prayers!”
Skathi snarled. “I'll happily send you to the Long Keeper right now, if you'd like.”
Noll's eyebrows rose in surprise. “Damn, woman, but you have a tongue on you! Perhaps later—”
A dagger appeared in Skathi's hand as if by magic. The tip rested against Noll's throat before he realized. “I'd caution you against finishing that thought, little man.”
Noll held up his hands, a wry grin on his face. “Not so little in the places that matter.”
Skathi rolled her eyes. “I hope to never find out. And if I do…” Her dagger dropped a few inches. “It won't end well for you.”
Aravon intervened. “Noll, Skathi is the newest member of our company. As such, you'd do well to treat her with a bit more respect.”
Skathi glared at Aravon. Clearly, intervening had been the wrong choice. He stifled a sigh. This woman would take more getting used to than most.
“You got it, Captain. I can do respectful.” The lascivious twinkle in Noll's eyes belied his words.
Aravon doubted it, but something told him Skathi would have no problem keeping him in line. He hadn't seen her draw the dagger.
“I-I'm Belthar.” Belthar's rumbling voice came from behind Aravon, and a huge hand thrust past his shoulder. “Of Icespire.”
Skathi regarded the big man with disdain. “Isn't that nice?” She didn't shake his hand.
Belthar colored, pulling his hand back after a moment. He seemed at a loss for words.
Aravon came to the big man's rescue. “Draian, would you show Skathi to her quarters?”
“Of course, Captain,” the Mender replied.
Aravon turned to the woman. “Skathi, once you are settled in, come find me. We have much to discuss.”
She stiffened, but gave a nod. “Yes, Captain.”
Draian gestured for her to follow. “Right this way, Skathi. That's a lovely name, by the way. Am I wrong, or is that the name of the Fehlan goddess of the hunt…” His voice trailed off as they exited the training yard.
Noll and Belthar both stared after her.
“Well, spank my rear and call me sir.” Noll’s voice took on a salacious edge. “That's one woman who knows a way to a man's heart.”
Colborn had come up behind Noll. “Right between his ribs, a quick thrust of a sharp blade.” He demonstrated by jabbing his fingers into the scout's side.
“Ow!” Noll yelped, from surprise and pain.
“After all your years as a Legion scout, Noll, I’d expect you to know the value of the Agrotorae.” Aravon met the little man's gaze. “But let me make one thing perfectly clear: she's a member of our team. That means—”
“Yeah, yeah, Captain, I get it.” Noll gave a dismissive wave. “But just you watch, I'll get her to warm up to me.”
Colborn snorted and muttered something that sounded like “a better chance with Derelana herself.”
Noll, affecting a hurt expression, slung a bow and quiver over his shoulder and strode toward the archery butts set up beyond the enclosed training yard.
Aravon glanced at Belthar. The big man stood staring in the direction Skathi had gone, his eyes glazed over.
Colborn snapped his fingers before Belthar's eyes. “Anyone awake in there?”
Belthar jerked, his trance broken. “What?” His tone and posture was defensive.
“Back to your training, big man,” Colborn said.
Belthar drew in a deep breath. “I-I think I'm done for the day.” He absentmindedly replaced his axe on the rack. “I need to brush up on my Fehlan.”
Colborn's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “Thirteen gods above! Book learning over physical activity? Are you ill?” He pressed a hand to Belthar's forehead, his expression that of a mother doting on a sick child. “No, no fever. Perhaps a touch of madness.”
The Lieutenant turned to the Captain. “The diagnosis is grim, Captain. He's lovestruck. If we're not careful, it could prove fatal.”
Aravon grinned, but Belthar shoved Colborn's hand away. “Get stuffed!”
He looked flustered. “J-Just caught me off-guard, is all.”
“Aye, and rightly so,” Colborn nodded. “Haven't seen one that pretty in a while.”
“Pretty?” Belthar shook his head. He spoke in a low voice. “She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.”
Aravon could see why Belthar would think that, though the big man was wrong. Mylena was gorgeous—but she was also clever, resourceful, and stronger than any Legionnaire he'd met. He'd fallen hard, and no woman could ever take her place.
Snarl nipped at his boot, his little wings flapping. Aravon scooped up the Enfield and strode toward the barracks, his thoughts heavy with memories of his wife.
* * *
“Zaharis, my man, when this is all over, I insist that you return to Wolfden Castle and spend a week teaching my chefs everything you know about cooking.” Duke Dyrund pushed his plate away and leaned back against the wall with a contented sigh. “That was the finest meal I've had in weeks, and I've just come from dining at the Prince's table.”
Zaharis glowed under the praise, and his fingers flashed in his sign language. Aravon caught the gestures for “secret”, “tell you”, and “kill you”.
Duke Dyrund's laughter filled the air. “At least I'd die a happy man.” He regarded the rest of the people seated around the table. “You're lucky you're taking Zaharis with you. Given what he just served us, you all will be eating better than most of the Princelands.”
Aravon nodded. Without a Legion chef, they'd rotated preparing the meals. Belthar had proven surprisingly adept at cooking, and Colborn could produce something edible without too much difficulty. Draian might have been a good healer but he was a terrible cook. All of them looked forward to Zaharis' turn in the kitchen.
“How goes the training?” the Duke asked Aravon.
Aravon told him of the progress they'd made. Over the last weeks, they'd spent every hour of the day occupied in some form of training. In the yard with their weapons. With Lectern Trillan studying Fehlan. Tracking, sneaking, and evading pursuit under Colborn's tutelage. Running the obstacle course a dozen times a day or hiking through the marsh. Learning the secrets of lock-picking and the silent hand language from Zaharis—a version the Secret Keeper had modified to form signals one-handed, perfect for men gripping weapons. They'd even studied basic field medicine from Draian.
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